


One Hand on My Cheekbone, One Hand on the Rope.

by countessrivers



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Minor Comfort, Jim loves Bruce so much, M/M, and he kind of gets it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 07:24:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17956142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: Bruce is not dealing well with a great many things.Jeremiah just happens to be at the top of the list of things he's not dealing with.Or maybe, he's just the straw that broke the camel's back.Bruce, in the aftermath of 'Ace Chemicals'.





	One Hand on My Cheekbone, One Hand on the Rope.

**Author's Note:**

> I have feelings about 5x07.
> 
> So does Bruce.

The first thing Bruce does upon returning to the apartment, having waved off a concerned Alfred, is pick up one of the stools arranged around the kitchen island and throw it across the room. The chair splinters satisfyingly when it hits the fridge, so he picks up another and hurls it at the ground. When that one doesn’t break so easily, he simply picks up what remains and throws it again.

Once the stool is nothing but splinters and jagged pieces of wood, he turns to the sink, which is filled with unwashed dishes. The first glass he lets just fall from his hands. It hits the floor with a smash, where it shatters into a dozen sparkling shards around his feet. The next he slings at the fridge, and the sound of glass breaking against metal is different to the sound of glass breaking against wood, though both seem hollow to his ringing ears.

He grabs mugs, plates, bowls, anything close enough to reach, and flings them around the room. The room fills with a cacophony of crashes and bangs, as the glass and ceramics hit the wall or the floor or the island, and shatter.

Bruce doesn’t even know what he’s trying to drown out with the noise.

He smashes one plate against the sink itself and notes distantly the feel of the shards pressing into his hands. He runs his fingers over the sharp edges, looking down but not really seeing, before brushing his hand along the sink to knock them to the floor.

Once out of crockery Bruce moves back around the kitchen island, ignoring the crunch of wood and glass under his shoes. He stands there, breathing heavily through his nose, looking around at the mess he made.

Then he squeezes his eyes shut and screams. He stands in the centre of the room, surrounded by destruction, and screams.

Much like they had back at the manor, Bruce and Alfred would often eat together in the kitchen, seated around the island, occasionally joined by Jim, or Harvey or Lucius. The meals were never anything particularly elaborate or even filling, with supplies so tightly rationed, but they had both clung to the familiarity, the closeness, and took comfort in each other’s presence as the world continued to go up in flames right outside their door.

_“How homey and intimate.”_

Bruce can barely stand to look at the room now.

He's still screaming when his legs give way beneath him, and he keeps screaming as he falls to his knees, head and body bowed and nails digging into his palms until they bleed so he’s not tempted to start clawing at the floor. He doesn’t stop until his voice gives out. When it does, he just kneels there panting, forehead to the floor, clenching and unclenching his stinging, bloody hands.

He has no idea how long he sits there, unmoving, but eventually he uncurls and uses the island to pull himself to his feet. Legs shaking, he stumbles over to the laundry room, pulling out a broom and using it to sweep up the kitchen. He sweeps the debris, the shards of glass and ceramic and wood, into a pile, which he gathers into a garbage bag. Putting the broom away, he stops by the bathroom to pick up their small first-aid kit.

After running his hands under the tap to wash off the blood and the dirt, he uses the kits’ tweezers to pull out the splinters and shards of glass that litter his palms and fingers. It doesn’t hurt, pulling them out, and in fact he can barely feel them at all, but there are a lot of them. A few of the bright little crescent marks left by his nails are also bleeding, but none of them are bad enough to cause concern. Bruce finds that there is something almost soothing about the methodical, repetitive act of plucking out each shard and listening to it clink into the bowl he had retrieved to collect them.

He wipes away the rest of the new blood once he’s sure he’s gotten them all. He’s not sure how long it took; time is feeling rather odd to Bruce at the moment.

That done, he tidies away the first-aid kit, and tips the tiny shards of glass and wood into the larger garbage bag, which he leaves sitting outside the front door. He seriously considers then heading to the pantry where he knows there’s a least one bottle of vodka in there somewhere. While he’s well aware that drinking oneself blind isn’t the healthiest way to deal with a problem, past experience has proved that it’s still an excellent, short-term way to avoid having to deal with any emotion other than the hunger you feel when drunk at 2am and all you want is pizza or a kebab. The only reason he decides not to down an entire bottle of alcohol is that he doesn’t want to deal with the hangover in the morning. Numbness and freedom from the weight of the world for a few hours is all well and good but having to spend the next day miserable and vomiting up bile means it’s not always worth it. And Bruce kind of just wants to sleep. He’s closing in on almost five days without anything longer than a power nap, and he’s _tired_.

Plus, Alfred would probably look at him with that sad, disappointed look of worry he pulls out on special occasions, and after three days of him being missing, Bruce isn’t sure he could handle that.

He doesn’t have the energy for a shower, the last of his lingering adrenaline used up in the kitchen, so he changes into a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, and climbs straight into bed.

It takes him a long time to actually fall asleep, what feels like hours spent just lying in the dark, staring at the wall. When he finally does drift off, the dreams, the nightmares, come immediately. He doesn’t wake up screaming, doesn’t lash out in blind terror. He just comes back to consciousness, face already wet with tears.

Bruce supposes that in the end, Jeremiah won, he got what he wanted, because when Bruce closes his eyes, all he can see is him.

* * *

 

After a night of fitful sleep, Bruce wakes to the sound of Alfred moving around the apartment. He should probably get up, greet him, apologise for the chairs and the plates and the rest of the kitchen, but his body feels heavy, weighed down, and in the moment, nothing seems less appealing than forcing himself to move. So, he continues to lie there, staring at the door. He tries to keep his mind purposefully blank, but every distraction tactic he uses eventually circles back around to the things he doesn’t want to think about.

By the time Alfred knocks softly, an hour or so later, Bruce has rolled over towards the wall and pulled the blanket up over his head. When Alfred doesn’t get a response to his taps, he slowly edges the door open, sticking his head inside.

“Master B? You awake in here?”

A noise somewhere between a grunt and a moan is the best Bruce can offer.

Alfred hums as he pushes the door all the way open and approaches the bed.

“I don’t suppose then,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. “That you would know anything about why the kitchen is short two chairs and a sink full of crockery, hmm? Or maybe why there is a sizable dent in the fridge door?”

Bruce curls in on himself a little more. He hadn’t noticed the dent.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred sounds hesitant, carefully light exasperation turning to concern as he shakes gently at Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce can sense his worry starting to pick up steam when Bruce continues to remain silent, and his hand moves from his shoulder to pull the blanket away from Bruce’s face.

“I’m fine, Alfred,” he forces out before he can. His throat aches, and it hurts to talk, but he can’t add to Alfred’s stress by making him think he’s sick or injured. He isn’t. He just doesn’t want to get out of bed. Or talk about _things_. “I’m sorry about the kitchen. I’ll- I’ll fix it up later. I’m just...tired.”

“Well I can hardly blame you. Been a rough couple of days, wouldn’t surprise me if you were feeling buggered.”

They sit in awkward silence for a moment, Bruce still buried under his blanket and Alfred gently rubbing his arm. Alfred clearly wants to know more, but he seems to be picking up on Bruce’s mood well enough not to push.

Bruce wonders if maybe Alfred’s not just tired too.

“How about some breakfast then?” He pushes on. “You must be starved. Honestly, when was the last time you ate something? Bullock did tell me he and Gordon had to just about frog march you out of the GCPD so you’d get some rest. I suppose it’s too much to assume that you ate anything while going on three days without sleep?”

Bruce hadn’t actually.

“I was busy,” he says, quietly. “Didn’t have time.”

As concern had turned to worry had turned to panic, and as one day without Alfred had become three, the very thought of food had made Bruce feel sick, just how any second not spent looking had made him feel like a failure.

“Breakfast then?” Alfred asks, a little hopefully. “What are you in the mood for? Eggs? Pancakes? We should have enough left for that at least.”

“No, no, I’m- I’m fine. It’s fine. I’m not, I’m not hungry.” Bruce is starting to ramble, and his throat is screaming and he’s so, so tired but he can’t stop. He can’t stand to even look at Alfred. He can’t stand his concern or his comfort or his offer of breakfast, because Bruce knows he doesn’t deserve any of it. “I’m just tired. I- I just want to sleep for a bit.”

“Well then, far be it from me to prevent you from actually catching up on sleep for once.”

He squeezes Bruce’s shoulder as he stands up, his hand warm and comforting and wonderful, and it takes everything Bruce has to hold in the sob the gesture elicits until Alfred has left the room.

* * *

 

There’s a clock on the bedside table, but it’s angled away from the bed, and Bruce is unable to see the time, even when rolled over and facing it. He _could_ just reach over and turn it around, but even that small movement feels like too much, so he roughly tracks the passing of the day by the angle and strength of the light that peeks through the gaps in the window shutters.

Alfred pops his head in occasionally, but Bruce just pretends to be asleep.

He gets up to use the bathroom a few times, but he does it quickly, with his eyes half shut, before stumbling back into bed, where he lays there, staring at the door or the wall or the ceiling or the underside of his blanket when not dozing, as his thoughts spin around and around, always coming to rest in the same places.

His parents. Selina. Jeremiah.

He has reached a point where he can genuinely look at pictures of his parents and feel comfort and love, rather than just simply pain. He can smile and take the compliment when people tell him he’s starting to look more and more like his father every day and hearing his mother’s name spoken out of the blue only results in the smallest of flinches.

In the study, in the kitchen, in the alley, he’d never once forgotten that it wasn’t real, that he wasn’t looking at his parents, alive and well, and the pain hadn’t come from the possibility of watching two strangers die as his parents had, from seeing them, supposedly walking around, laughing, smiling at him, as if the last six years had been nothing but an awful dream. The pain had come from what they meant. From knowing that for all his training, however much he has tried to be stronger and faster and better, he’s still just as scared and helpless as he was when he was twelve years old. He’s no more able to save the people he loves now than he was able to stop Matches Malone from firing that gun.

Bruce finds it morbidly funny that Jeremiah could be so right about certain things. He _had_ been thinking about that night, had thought of nothing but, even as he knew the re-creation to be false. He had clung tightly to his anger, the fury he felt at the ways Jeremiah had taken what Bruce had given him, what he had offered up to him, and made it into a weapon to hurt him with. At the desecration of his parent’s image, his grief, the rawest parts of himself that he had shared with someone he had cared about. Because he had to. Because he couldn’t allow himself to hesitate, to stumble.

If he was angry, he wasn’t hurt.

And the worst part is that hurting Bruce hadn’t even been the point. He knows, in Jeremiah’s cracked and twisted head, the whole thing had simply been about bringing them closer, proving exactly how much they needed each other. Giving Bruce what Jeremiah thought he needed. He was ready, again, to sacrifice the city and its inhabitants to keep Bruce for himself.

All of this, all the death, all the destruction, all because Jeremiah lo-.

Bruce hadn’t been able to save Selina and Jeremiah from themselves, or each other, nor had he been able to save Jeremiah from his brother.

Had Selina not been there then he would have lost Jim and Lee too.

It all just keeps circling back to that one inescapable truth; that Bruce is too weak to protect the ones he loves, the city that he loves. All he does is get people killed.

* * *

 

He spends his second night in much the same way as the first: all too brief periods of real rest interrupted by nightmares.

He dreams of gunshots and scattered pearls. Gotham falling and Jeremiah falling with it.

A phantom knife at his throat that cuts in deep this time has him gasping awake, hands scrambling for his neck, so sure in the moments it takes for the dream to fall away that he’s going to start choking on blood.

* * *

 

He’s never blamed Selina for not interfering in his parent’s shooting. He can admit to being mad, even hating her for a lot of things, but not that.

It’s funny, in the way that it’s the exact opposite of funny, that they both blame themselves for standing by and doing nothing, even as they let the other off the hook.

Selina’s not obliged to care, about him or his parents. It would be nice if she did, because Bruce loves her, but she doesn’t have to. He knows she does though. She hates admitting it, thinks it makes her look weak, but he knows, push comes to shove, that she’ll be there if he needs her, even if he never asked.

The seed still worries him, and he hasn’t forgotten the way she left him in the church, or the man in the street, or Jeremiah, but he hopes her being in the alley, the way Alfred had said she’d let Oswald Cobblepot go, meant that he hasn’t lost her completely. Not yet.

Bruce just wishes Selina would stop turning her indifference into a knife she keeps lashing out at him with. It’s exhausting.

And it hurts.

* * *

 

His house is gone too. It only really occurs to Bruce after Alfred has come and gone with another plate of food that Bruce hadn’t touched. His house is gone. The home he grew up in, where Alfred taught him how to fight. Where he first kissed Selina. Where his mother used to sit with him when he was sick, running her fingers through his hair and her hands down his back as he clung to her, bedridden and miserable. Where his father would swing him up over his shoulder and carry him down to dinner or up to bed, tickling him as he squirmed and giggled, trying to get away.

Practically everything he owned. Every piece of clothing, his and Alfred’s and his parents’, every book, every photograph, every little piece of their lives that had accumulated over the years. The journal that a harried but smiling Jim had dropped off for him the day after his Eighteenth, and the tie and collar pin set he had tucked away in preparation for _his_ birthday. The scarf that after six years still smelled like his mother’s perfume. The cufflinks he hadn’t allowed to be buried with his father.

All of it, gone.

And it’s not like he can’t afford to replace everything. To buy a whole new house, a dozen houses if he really wanted. Or even have the manor rebuilt exactly, if the government ever allows them to reunify with the mainland.

(Not if, when. _When_ they reunify. Bruce cannot allow himself to lose hope, he can’t.)

It’s not that. It’s the loss of what he can’t replace. The smells and the memories and all the chips and stains and breaks and marks that made the manor a home, that gave it life, even when it was just him and Alfred who only took up a handful of rooms between them.

The loss cuts him, the same way Selina’s repeated repudiation and the enjoyment he sees her find in inflicting pain on those in her way cuts him. The way the government’s abandonment of the innocents on Gotham and the way watching Jim slowly loose his faith, day by day, cuts him. The way watching Jeremiah shoot a man in the head and wipe the blood away to reveal deathly, chalk white underneath had cut him. The way finding Jeremiah alive and breathing but disfigured and unresponsive at the bottom of the emptied chemical vat had cut him.

The way the sound of a certain make of gun firing still cuts him.

The cuts keep coming, and Bruce can’t help but feel like he’s slowly but surely bleeding out. The only question is how long he’s going to last.

He curls in on himself, eyes slipping shut as he allows himself to weep for everything he’s lost.

* * *

 

Bruce hates Jerome for a lot of things, for the people he killed, for the destruction he caused, for the scars he left behind, but the thing he probably hates him for the most is what he did to Jeremiah. Jerome took someone who was afraid and lonely and who only wanted to do the right thing, his own flesh and blood, and he made him a monster.

But he hates Lila Valeska too. He hates Zack Trumble, and every man Lila ever slept with who turned around and raised a hand to a child. He hates Paul Cicero for not being there for either of his children, in any way that really mattered. He hates the people of Haly’s Circus, who spent years looking the other way.

Bruce wishes that someone could have saved Jerome. He wishes someone could have saved them both.

And maybe it wouldn’t have mattered in the long run. Maybe Jerome would have embraced his sadistic inclinations anyway. Maybe Jeremiah’s affections and fears would have spiraled out of control without the gas. Maybe they would have pushed each other away, tried to destroy each other all the same. Maybe they would have all ended up here in the end, regardless of what they tried.

(Maybe it’s human nature. Maybe it’s fate. Maybe Gotham is just cursed and it ruins everyone eventually)

He just wishes they could have been given a better chance.

Because he had wanted it so badly, what he thought he’d had with Jeremiah. He met him, and he was everything Bruce could have ever wanted in a friend. A partner. A...

Bruce slips a hand inside his shirt and runs his fingers along the cut across his chest. It hadn’t been that deep. Its purpose had simply been to buy enough time to get a little distance between them as Jeremiah lost control, and it hadn’t required stitches.

(Bruce is almost certain that at this point, the only way Jeremiah would have slit his throat is if he intended to slit his own immediately after.)

It still stings when he presses on it, and he knows it’s probably going to scar.

He’ll have a matched set. It will go well with the faint white line on his neck, and the three scars that dot the inside of his right arm, and the mark on his temple from being pistol whipped into unconsciousness and dumped in an open grave.

Jim had told him, perhaps as a peace offering, about Jeremiah after Jerome and the others had slipped through his grasp once again, and Bruce, for a brief moment, had considered himself lucky. He may have been an orphan, but at least he didn’t have a brother hell bent on killing him. He knew, better than most, how tenacious and creative Jerome Valeska could be.

He had still wanted to meet him though. This young man who shared the face of someone who had caused Gotham, and Bruce, so much grief. Who had escaped Haly’s Circus long before Lila Valeska died. Who had hidden himself away out of fear, even as he worked to make the city better, to leave his mark on it. Who had met his father. Who had helped build his company’s headquarters, a building with Bruce’s own name plastered all over it.

Bruce wonders what Jerome would think about him having brought them together. What he would think about how it ended.

He’d probably find it funny.

But it’s not. Nothing about this is funny.

Bruce had been angry after Selina. After the bombs and the reveal. After walking into his home after almost four months and finding Alfred a hypnotised prisoner accompanied by a sick parody of the two people that Bruce still loves the most. He had been so angry.

But he’s not angry now. Now, curled up in bed, he just feels sad. Alone. Lost.

Heartbroken.

Jeremiah had looked at him like no one else ever had.

The way Jeremiah had looked at him in the bunker, with something close shock as Bruce complimented his work, and something close to awe as Bruce explained why he was ready to die for the people of his city. Even after, Jeremiah had looked at him like he was the centre of the universe and as he sat in the manor’s kitchen, he had seen that same look. Like he was all Jeremiah needed. Like he was the only thing he ever wanted to see.

But he’s gone, lost to him, and god knows if Jeremiah’s ever going to even _open_ his eyes again.

Jeremiah had been brilliant and beautiful, and Bruce had wanted to give him anything, everything he could have possibly needed. He had wanted to spend time with him, get to know him. Just, be around him.

He had wanted to see what Jeremiah could do, when freed from fear and restrictions. He had wanted to see what they could do, together.

Because it was real. Bruce still isn’t sure if that makes him feel better or worse, but he knows, it was real. He doesn’t know how the gas worked, how long it took to change him, but Bruce knows it wasn’t all a lie.

Bruce can remember the looks Jeremiah would give him when he thought Bruce wasn’t watching, the surprised expression on his face when Bruce complimented him, the excitement when Bruce caught on to what he was talking about, when he kept up with his jargon-filled spiels about the generators.

He liked Bruce, he _loved_ him. Whatever monstrous thing it became, t _hat_ was real.

What Bruce felt had been real.

Jeremiah lied to him, used him to create the bombs that had torn Gotham apart, hurt the people that he loved, but he wanted Bruce. Unconditionally, without strings, without conditions, without shame, Jeremiah wanted him. And knowing that, feeling that, isn’t something Bruce has ever had before.

Jeremiah _knew_ Bruce, knew him and saw him in a way that no one else did, and not just because Bruce talked to him like he couldn’t with anyone else. Not just because he told him things.

They were going to save the world together, change it, make it better, and it hurts, it hurts so much that Jeremiah became someone whom Bruce can barely recognise.

Someone who could do what he did to him.

Bruce’s heart keeps breaking, over and over again, and he’s not sure how much more he can take.

* * *

 

Bruce dreams that he’s the one to fall. He dreams that Jeremiah stares down at him. That he jumps in after him. That _he_ jumps after Jeremiah.

He dreams that they fall together. That they both jumped. That Jeremiah pulled him in after him. That they pushed each other.

It probably says something that even his dreams never end any happier than reality.

* * *

 

Bruce thinks he’s been in bed for at least three days now.

Alfred continues to bring in food, setting each new plate on the bedside table after clearing the old one like clockwork. He tries to rouse Bruce, tries to get him to shower, tries to get him to eat something. Anything.

“I’m sorry,” is all Bruce can say to him, when he can bring himself to say anything at all. And Bruce _is_ sorry. About so many things.

He drinks the water Alfred leaves him, but that’s about it.

He’s been crying a lot, and what little he has been drinking hasn’t been doing much to get rid of the almost constant throbbing headache, but it’s better than nothing.

Bruce thinks he may have gotten up once or twice to use the bathroom, but he can’t be sure. The hours drag into each other yet slide away in a flash. He sleeps when he sleeps, but awake or asleep, he can’t escape from his thoughts. From his grief.

Bruce knows he needs to get out of bed. People need his help. Alfred and Jim and Harvey and Lee need his help, _Gotham_ needs his help, and every moment that he’s not out there is a moment where people are getting hurt.

But he can’t. He tries. He sits up a few times. Makes it out into the hallway once. But he can’t.

He can’t stop his mind from dredging up every awful, dark and bleak thought he’s ever had. He can’t stop the feeling of existential despair that seeps into him and tells him over and over again that it’s his fault, all he does is bring death to the people he loves. He still can’t get out of bed. He still can’t stop crying silently until his head aches.

And he still can’t stop thinking about Jeremiah.

* * *

 

It’s late afternoon, closer to evening by Bruce’s approximation when the bedroom door opens, and he can tell just from the footsteps against the carpet that it’s not Alfred.

“Hey, Bruce. You awake?”

Jim. Unexpected, but not a total surprise.

He hums to let Jim know that he is, that it’s okay to approach.

"Just thought I’d come by, check-up on you,” he says as he sits down on the edge of the bed, close enough that Bruce can feel the warmth radiating off him. “I’m sorry, it’s been a busy few days, but I wanted to see how you were doing. Lucius and Harvey asked about you. Lee too. Wanted to make sure you got back safe.”

Jim pauses.

“Alfred’s... Alfred’s getting a little worried.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, and Jim hesitates, before laying a hand lightly on his leg.

“I, um, I just want you to know, how proud I am of you Bruce.” Bruce stiffens in surprise, because, why on earth would Jim-? And he knows Jim must notice his reaction, but he continues anyway. “Every day I see how strong and kind you are, and I am blown away. Everything you have seen, everything you have endured, and you’re still here, you’re still fighting.”

Jim coughs, clearing his throat, but his hand has started gently rubbing his leg, and Bruce can feel the warm weight of his gaze.

 “I know what it’s like to want to give up. To let go because you’re tired, because nothing you do seems to make a difference. I understand Bruce. God, do I understand. But you’re stronger than that. You’re better than that. You look at the world and see something worth saving, worth fighting for.”

There’s pride, and so much affection in Jim’s voice that Bruce has to squeeze his eyes shut.

“I’m just sorry that the world, that people, keep trying to prove you wrong.” Jim’s voice has gone sad again, and Bruce hates it, so he shifts his other leg to press his free foot under the blankets against Jim’s thigh in acknowledgement. Jim squeezes his leg in return.

“Take as much time as you need. We’ll all be here, whenever you’re ready.”

Jim waits a moment, silence broken only by the gentle sound of their breathing, then shifts like he’s about to move.

“I loved him.”

Bruce says it softly, practically to himself, voice hoarse and croaky from days without use, but he knows Jim hears him. He feels him still, and the hand still resting on his leg flinch, just a little.

He’s never said it out loud. He never told Alfred or Selina. He certainly never told Jeremiah.

“I know,” Jim says, just as softly, hand resuming its even stroking.

Jim doesn’t say anything else, and Bruce is glad. Jim could. He should, and Bruce would deserve it all. But he doesn’t. He just sits there quietly, stroking Bruce’s leg through the blankets, offering silent comfort.

Maybe Jim just understands better than most that you can’t always help who you love.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says. “I’m sorry you and Lee almost died. I’m sorry about the city.” He rolls over and sits up to face Jim, head spinning with the sudden movement after so long laying down. He’s started crying again and he can barely see Jim’s face.

“I’m sorry,” His voice keeps hitching, and he can’t catch his breath. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Jim pulls him in, wrapping his arms around him.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” he says, as Bruce clutches at him. “It’s okay. You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re okay.

He holds him, rubbing a hand up and down his back as Bruce sobs into his chest.

“I loved him. I loved him.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm over here on [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/) if you ever want to chat.


End file.
